The American Flower
by Random-AC-Grl
Summary: Ok you have to help me with the name but w/e. The presidents daughter is starting a new school and wants to keep her parents' identity a secret romance/girl story :


"What are you wearing?" my little sister, Lily asked. Not like she had the right to judge me or anything.

She didn't have to start at a new school.

She wasn't home schooled for the first fifteen years of her life.

And she didn't wake up with a zit on her chin the size of a cantaloupe.

So, no, Lily shouldn't have said anything when she went past my room that day. She should have just kept walking like the sis I wish I had.

She didn't know, of course, that I had dressed with the goal of looking like a normal teenager. Not like the daughter of the president of the United States of America. Which I am. And let me tell you, going to fundraisers, important dinners, and ceremonies is not all it's cracked up to be. Actually, it's totally not fun. At all. And I'm determined to keep all that-being the president's daughter, that is- a secret.

That's why I got up a half an hour earlier than usual to rummage through all of my drawers to find the grubby jeans I had worn when I picked up trash on the bike path that runs by my favorite coffee shop. They were tight, faded blue jeans that had holes in the knees.

Then, after finding my old running shoes, I ventured into the dark corners of my closet that no person should ever go to alone. But I did find what I was looking for; the flannel, button-down shirt that my distant cousin from Texas, or something, sent me for my fifteenth birthday. It was two sizes too big and the day after receiving it, I threw it into my closet and forgot about it until now. I slipped on the light flannel shirt over a brown undershirt.

To top the whole thing off I grabbed an old baseball cap from under my bed and put it on backwards.

And that is what Lily saw when she interrupted my vital speculation of myself in the mirror. I must say, I didn't look anything like the high-heeled, miniskirt, baby-doll top wearing self whose clothes my mother always picked out for me.

And I kind of liked it. I mean, I definitely wasn't the innocent little girly-girl that America thought I was. I loved to play sports, especially soccer. And I would rather go see a movie than go shopping at the hottest stores, or whatever. I'm not a tomboy but I'm a normal girl who likes to do normal-girl things.

This is, also, the look that's kind of mischievous. And I can say that I do get in trouble, more often than not. The Secret Service (aka, the men and women in black suits with little earpieces) doesn't really like it when I slide down the stair rails.

Or put ketchup on pieces of meat and stick them on the ceiling.

Or put mustaches on statues that, as my parents say, represent our appreciation for culture.

But, seriously, what am I supposed to do, since my mom won't let me go outside more than once a week because she's scared about my safety? Like someone is going to see me at a McDonalds and kidnap me and hold me ransom. Yeah, I don't think so. Especially since there would be half a dozen Secret Service people following me around. No, that doesn't look weird.

"Go away," I told Lily, in response to her not-so-complimentary comment. She just rolled her eyes and walked out of my room, her high-heels clinking on the wooden floor in the hall. She is so annoying.

When I finally fixed my thick brown hair so it wasn't in my eyes, the only part I really like about my appearance, and putting on cover-up so my gigantic pimple wasn't as noticeable, and some eyeliner, I made my way downstairs.

It takes some getting used to living in the White House. I mean, it's so huge. The first time we moved in, I remember, I went to the bathroom and couldn't find my way back to the "family room." I wandered around for fifteen minutes before I asked one of the men in the black suits, who were everywhere, where to go. But after a month, it's like you've lived there all your life.

So, I knew exactly which stair rail to slide down that got me to the kitchen. After getting an unapproving look from one of the black-suited men, I ran down to the kitchen to get some breakfast.

The smell of frying bacon and maple syrup was strong from the room where our cook, Giovanni, was making a farmer-sized meal.

Giovanni was a short, stout man who always insisted on calling me "Ms. Krawford."

When he saw me walk in, he cried, "Ms. Krawford!"-see, I told you- "I didn't expect you down so early! You're going to have to wait. Is that okay?" Like me waiting for ten minutes for breakfast wasn't okay.

"Yeah, that's fine." I said, straddling a stool and resting my elbows on the counter.

Giovanni didn't seem to care about my new look. Of course, he's from Italy and doesn't know the style of us teenagers and, as he says, "isn't going to try to keep up with the _pazzo_ (crazy) American fashions."

Even though I had begged my parents to send me to a real school, I was still really nervous. I never have gotten to really socialize with people my age, other than children of diplomats and other important political positions. So, you can see where I'm coming from.

My mom wouldn't let me go to a public school but we settled on the biggest prep school in D.C., Roosevelt Academy. Oh, how original; a school named after a president in Washington D.C.

And I didn't want to be the rich girl of the school. And I definitely did not want to be known as the president's daughter. Getting a title before your first day is not something that I want. Even if it's beneficial, like my mom thinks it is. But everybody wanting to be your friend so they can get your dad's autograph and go to parties at the White House is not what I would call beneficial.

The real reason I wanted to go to a school, aside from wanting to make friends, maybe get a boyfriend, join a club or two, and see what it's like to be a normal teenager, is that I wanted to break free from my parents. That sounds totally hormone-driven, I know, but I'm serious. All my life I've been confined to a house, white or not. Even when I wasn't the president's daughter, and my dad was just a local politician, I was isolated by my overprotective parents. Quarantined, you could say. With a nonexistent disease.

So, after a decade and a half, I'm ready to put down that book, metaphorically speaking, because I'm not a big reader, and go outside and take a breath of fresh air.

Okay, it's not like I've never been outside. Once a week I'm allowed to go out and do something. But, it has to be within the borders of D.C. and I can't do anything illegal. You can tell I'm well trusted. I'm, also, hounded by the Secret Service wherever I go and since I don't have any friends in this stupid district, I usually go to the coffee shop a couple blocks down.

Cocoa Beans is its name. It's a very comfy place where you can buy a Mocha Frappuccino and no one will say, "Hey, aren't you the president's kid?" That's why I like it. Everyone minds their own business and that's such a total change from my usual social environment that as soon as I step in there and hear the coffee beans grinding, I forget that I'm politically famous, even though I'm not that in to politics, and feel, well, normal. I can just sit on one of the leather sofas, sip my highly caffeinated beverage, and write my poetry.

I love to write poetry. You know how everybody has a "thing?" Well, poetry is my thing. It's my escape, my Exodus. Whenever I'm angry or upset or something, I just lock myself in my room or go down to Cocoa Beans and start writing. It really helps me control my emotions. It's probably the reason that I've been able to survive for so long. Shakespeare and other poetry books are pretty much all I ever read, and that's where I get a lot of my inspiration from.

This is the _pazzo_-ness I was thinking about when a plate of pancakes, bacon, toast, and muffins clunked down in front of me. I jumped, snapping back to Earth and, remembering that I was still in the kitchen, sitting on a stool, glanced up at Giovanni's anticipating round face and said, hastily, "Thanks, Gi, looks delicious!" Then, when my very sensitive cook turned his back to me, I fed my muffins and pancakes to our dog Frankie, after Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Frankie, my scruffy black terrier, always helped me with the extra food that Giovanni always cooked so much of.

"Cally, who's taking you to school today?" Lily asked me, walking into the kitchen, wearing her low-cut, midriff-exposing top and her mini-est miniskirt. She may be only eleven, but she doesn't mind showing off her tiny body.

I, on the other hand, am not skinny. I'm a little under normal, and so is my bra size. My face is pretty clear, besides my mountain zit.

It was, also, thirty-five degrees outside. THIRTY-FIVE DEGREES. And, still, Lily was wearing the shortest skirt she owns, or the shortest skirt any eleven year old owns, for that matter. She. Is. Crazy.

"Um, Sam, I think," I answered. Lily didn't have to go to school, because she was still home schooled and liked it that way. She still has a bunch of friends from the mall, online, and all her dance classes.

"Ooh," she said, with a smirk, "he's cute!"

I just rolled my eyes. She thought everyone was cute. Sam Mason was the youngest Secret Service guy we have. He's eighteen and the person I demanded be my bodyguard for high school. I don't like him or anything. It's just that I didn't want a 250 pound man following me around. That's just creepy. I, also, confronted Sam and told him that he can't dress in his normal required black outfit. Because, I mean, seriously, that's kind of suspicious. And weird.

So, now I just have an eighteen year old in regular clothes following me around. Odd, but not as much.

I checked my watch which read seven-thirty.

"Well," I announced, "I have to go. See ya. And Lily, tomorrow, try and pick a skirt that doesn't show your Hello Kitty underwear every time you bend down, 'kay?" She looked at me with a mix of disbelief and disgust. I smiled innocently and turned around to walk out of the room.

But I, obviously, being the klutz that I am, ran into the doorframe. Lily, who was drinking her morning latte, let out what sounded like a snort, sending hot coffee flying out her nose. And, even though I was pretty embarrassed by the whole thing, that gave me some satisfaction.

I jogged to the bottom of the stairs and grabbed my backpack, swinging it around one shoulder and shouted, "Sam! Come on, I'm going to be late!"

As I waited for Sam to come down the stairs, I thought about how heavy my backpack was. It was really heavy. Dang heavy. And how did people lug these around all the time? I mean, I play soccer, so my legs are pretty built. But from the waist up, no muscles whatsoever.

I heard footsteps coming and sighed with relief, thinking that, finally, Sam was coming. But, instead, it was my mom. I don't see how the wife of the leader of our country could have the time to see me off to school but, sure enough, she was there.

"Mom," I said, in the whiny tone children only use with their parents, "what are you doing here? And where's Sam? We're gonna be late!"

"Don't worry, hon," she reassured me. "He's just getting his sh- Oh my God, Cally, what are you wearing?"

I don't know why I even bother. "I don't want to be the prissy little girl everyone always makes me out to be. I want to look like a normal teenager, not the president's kid. Why do you think I asked you to tell the faculty there not to mention to the students there that I am, you know, who I am?"

Mom didn't seem ecstatic about my little speech. "Okay, sweetheart, but I think you went a little far. Can't you at least take that dirty hat off?"

I took it off, knowing that beneath it was an unkempt wad of my hair that was totally unmanageable.

"Ugh, never mind," is all she had to say about that. I smiled victoriously and put the cap back on.

Before my mother could say anything more about my look, another set of footsteps came from the stairs. I looked up and saw Sam sprinting down them.

He definitely didn't look official anymore. He had loose jeans, converse shoes, and a navy blue and gold jersey on. On top of his head was a beanie (I think that's what they're called) with locks of his curly black hair sticking out.

"I like the hat," I said, as he took his last step down.

Sam looked at me up and down before replying, "Ditto."

His bright blue eyes looked at my mom before turning back to me, slightly more solemn, and said, "You ready?"

I nodded and said, "Bye, Mom." She hugged me good-bye (ugh) and I followed Sam out to the car.

You know how when the president goes out anywhere, there are a million police and squad cars? Well, I made sure that I was going to only have one car on our ride to school. It took a lot of long nights arguing with my parents, but they finally agreed that I could take the black Ford Escape with tinted, bulletproof windows.

I climbed into the passenger seat, since I don't have my permit (once again the work of my paranoid parents). Sam climbed into the drivers seat and put the key into the ignition.

"Vroom vroom," he said, turning to me and winking. He was pretty excited to drive such a nice car, I'm guessing.

I just exhaled loudly and leaned back into the leather seat.

"It must be nice, to have gone to high school, and be just another kid, nothing freakish about you," I said, closing me eyes. I was tired from waking up so early.

"Yeah, getting overlooked by every girl, ignored by people you try and talk to, and yelled at by teachers who only know you as 'Number 52' is loads of fun." Sam replied, sounding amused.

I opened my eyes and said, "Okay, but you weren't isolated from everyone else. You weren't new, starting school after winter break. You had to have made friends."

His response to this was to turn up the radio that was playing some rock and roll song.

"Alright, Mr. Mason, don't answer me," I said to myself and closed my eyes again.

Sam went to a public school, though, with, like, three-thousand kids. I'm going to a preparatory school, with about five-hundred students.

And the teachers have good relationships with the kids there. I read the brochures. And I've seen the school, been inside it, even. Those lockers are definitely not big enough to stuff a person in.

I looked at myself in the side mirror. Big green eyes were staring back at me. 'I wonder if they'll like me,' I thought. 'I'm not anything special to look at. I'm pretty funny, but terribly clumsy, it's not even funny. Even though they might think it's funny. The students, that is. I wonder if there are any poetry clubs. I might be able to make friends if we share the same interests.'

"What are you thinking about?" Sam asked me curiously.

"Just if the people there will like me or not," I answered.

"Well, I don't see how they can't," he said. "And if they don't, I'll make 'em." He punched his hand into his palm. I smiled and looked outside.

Traffic. My watch said seven forty-five. I had fifteen minutes before I'd be late on my first day. Great.

But, then we pulled off onto a side road where there were no cars.

"Shortcut," Sam said, winking at me.

Psh, like he even knew where he was going.

Soon, I got bored of just sitting there, so I took my MP3 player out and started listening to some music.

Ah, I love rock; people think I'm weird when I saw it's comforting, but it is. It takes you out of your world and into theirs. Sometimes, it makes your problems seem not as big as they could be. Plus, the music is awesome.

Soon, I was so lost in the singer's sticky situation with some guy, that I barely noticed that we pulled up to a big gray building.

"Hey, Cal," Sam Mason told me, patting me slightly on the arm, "we're here."

I snapped my eyes open and stared at the words carved above the front door that read "Roosevelt Academy."


End file.
